


forget about your nine to five

by roachpatrol



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BDSM, F/M, Femdom, Gangbang, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 08:52:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roachpatrol/pseuds/roachpatrol
Summary: “I’m on errantry,” Mike says finally. “Sir Smiling Dragon, of His Majesty the Lord Vanquisher’s realm, the kingdom of Raymanthia, let me UP.”“Mmm, no.” The girl runs an insultingly lazy claw up his breastplate, slitting the metal like it’s paper. “It’s been a long time since a mortal king sent us such a sweet gift, little dragon, I think we’ll take our time unwrapping you.”





	forget about your nine to five

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to LaughingStones for the premise, encouragement, and editing!

 

Mike wakes up from a nap weirdly short of breath. He blinks for a moment, his brain spinning sluggishly, then realizes someone’s sitting on his chest.  A girl: small, thin, pale, with long dark hair that gleams red like burning wood, and golden, slit-pupiled eyes.

“Hey, pretty boy,” the girl says, and grins with a few too many sharp teeth. She snaps her fingers and _she’s got claws, not sharp fingernails, CLAWS--_ she snaps her fingers and the hands Mike’s half-raised defensively are grabbed and pinned down to the ground in a flash. Two tall, slim young men, one fair and the other richly brown, with leaves and flowers crowning their gold and night-dark hair and long, strong-fingered hands clamped shackle-tight on his wrists.

“Hey!” Mike yelps. “Hey, get off--”

“So,” the girl continues, like Mike’s not kicking and twisting underneath her, “what brings a sweet little thing like you to our neck of the woods?”

“I’m-- hff-- get off! I’m here on-- by order of-- _GET OFF_!”

“Believe me, I’d like to,” the girl says, dry and wicked. “Are you offering to help, pretty boy?” Her tongue doesn’t look human, when she licks her fangs, and it’s doing kind of a weird number on Mike’s composure. He bares his own teeth at her and thrashes again, but there’s three other guys, now, the two lean men still gripping each of his hands and a thickly built, bull-horned man holding down his legs, and they keep him pinned flat.

“I’m on errantry,” Mike says finally. “Sir Smiling Dragon, of His Majesty the Lord Vanquisher’s realm, the kingdom of Raymanthia, let me _UP_.”

“Mmm, no.” The girl runs an insultingly lazy claw up his breastplate, slitting the metal like it’s paper. “It’s been a long time since a mortal king sent us such a sweet gift, little dragon, I think we’ll take our time unwrapping you.”

“Un- hey! _No!_ I’m here as- as- ssstop, I’m, there were bandits--” she’s peeling apart his tunic, now, “--came to clear bandits out of the, the Northern _nnh_!” She’s pulled on his gorget, twisting the heavy leather in her small fist like it’s nothing more than a kerchief, or a collar, and that-- that does things to Mike, he can’t help it. His face is burning hot, now, his breath short, his pulse loud and heavy in his ears.

“ _Really_ ,” the girl purrs. “Because this isn’t the Northern anything, pretty boy. This is the Western Wilds. Fairy Territory.”

She leans in, presses a light kiss to the tight knot of Mike’s throat. “You’re _lost_ , sweet thing,” she purrs, “ _and it’s finders-keepers around here._ ”  Mike can’t help the splintered, embarrassing noise that leaves his mouth, or the shuddering heat that goes all down his spine.

“You can’t,” he says, against all evidence to the contrary. “Even if-- even if you can take me-- while I was _asleep_ , you can’t hold me here forever, and--”

“We’re magic,” the girl says. “We can.”

“--My king would come for me. Will come for me. He was-- we were on campaign together, he’s gonna miss me any minute now and nothing will stop him from-- from s-striking down anyone who stands in his way!”

The girl has slouched down along his chest, so her thighs are around his hips and her chin is on his chest, and she’s leaving soft, exploratory little nips and licks under his collar-- his _armor_ \-- as she twists it free.

“What do you think, Sting?” she asks, sounding deeply amused. “Should we be _scared_ of some little mortal king coming to break up our fun?”

“You should--hh--” Mike arches, tries to thrash again. A clawed hand has closed around his throat.

The dark young man on Mike’s left arm gives a low, surprisingly sweet chuckle. “I dunno, Cat,” he says. “I heard the guy slayed a dragon to get his crown. That’s not nothin’.”

“Mortals talk,” the pale man on Mike’s right arm snorts. His wild golden hair is held back from his face with a woven circlet of vines and leaves, and when he leans over to sneer down at Mike, his eyes are an eerie, iridescent beetle-green from edge to edge.

He says, “What if your king’s not coming, Sir Knight? He sent _you_ out here to the Wilds instead of coming himself. What if he’s _scared_?”

“Lord Vanquisher is the bravest man I’ve ever known,” Mike snarls. “Fear wouldn’t stop him, nothing can stop him, none of _you_ can stop him. He’s slain _two_ dragons-- a bunch of jumped up jerks like you guys don’t even rate!”

“Oooh, he told _you_ , Storm,” the dark fairy goes, laughing again, as the pale one colors across his cheeks and looks away, green eyes narrowing. The big bull-horned guy holding down Mike’s legs is snickering, too.

“Boys,” the girl on Mike’s chest says, sounding amused, almost indulgent. “Why don’t we show our new toy what a bunch of jumped up jerks can do to entertain ourselves?”

“Like sex?” the guy on Mike’s legs speaks up. “Cuz, I mean, check it out--” and that’s, okay, that’s a hand palming Mike’s dick, making him whine despite himself because that hand is _really big_ , covering him pretty much entirely, “--I mean, that’s what this is about, right?”

“Yeah, Bull,” the girl says indulgently. “You nailed it.”

“Haha, _nailed,_ ” the guy snickers. He’s not letting go of Mike’s dick, squeezing and rubbing through Mike’s trousers, getting him even harder for all that Mike’s straining to pull his arms free, for all that Mike doesn’t want-- would never want-- this isn’t the kind of thing anyone _should_ want--

“Cry mercy, Sir Knight,” the girl says, a mean, mocking curl to her lips. “We’ll let you run along back to your mortal king. Or keep on pretending like he’s _coming_ \-- like he could _stop_ us doing whatever we like to you-- and we’ll find ways to amuse ourselves until he fetches you back. Which would be _never_.”

Mike takes a minute to parse all that, and then fury and righteous pride lights his veins hotter than the forced arousal.

“Do your worst,” he spits. “My king will, hah, w-will make you pay for _everything_.”

“Well, then,” the girl grins. “We’d better make it worth the price.”

“Dibs on his butt,” the guy playing with Mike’s dick says, and Mike shudders, anger and anticipation and fear and inescapable arousal all tangling together inside him. The girl catches that shudder--she couldn’t not, she’s pretty much lying on him--and raises a smug, challenging eyebrow.

“Your king can’t save you before we break you,” she purrs.

Mike glares at her, teeth clenched. “Do your worst,” he repeats. “And we’ll see.”

“Alright, then,” she says. She sits up and strips her tunic off, baring an astonishingly pale stretch of chest and stomach: so milky-fair that her veins are a blue tracery under her skin, and around the pink tips of her nipples. She thumbs one as she sits back, smirking down at Mike, enjoying his stare. Mike feels his face heat even further and looks away, jaw clenched, and she giggles at him.

Sharp claws trace his ribs, tickling from one to the next.

“Hey, Catgirl, can I touch your stuff,” the big guy asks.

“Go for it,” the girl says, and then _“Mm! Yeah, nice_.”

Mike glances back up, despite himself, to see one of Bull’s big, tan hands cupping one of the girl’s small breasts, squeezing it and pinching at the nipple, then moving to the other one. Cat leans even further back, nuzzling the side of his face, dropping a little kiss to the base of one of his horns. The power in the big guy’s grip is obvious, unmistakable, but for all his rough handling the delicate-looking girl just hums and rolls with it, confident as a queen.

It’s a lot harder to look away a second time. And it really doesn’t help that the guy is _still_ playing with Mike’s dick, squeezing and rubbing in aimless, frustratingly arrythmic jolts, too harsh and then too soft, almost enough and then too much. Mike can’t help rolling his hips into the friction, trying for some relief, and an angry, frustrated groan works its way out of his throat.

All the boys laugh at him for it, and the girl grins like she’s won a prize.

“Impatient?” she asks sweetly. Mike glares at her, then arches sharply, bucking up hard enough it takes her by surprise. She yelps and slips half off him, grabbing at the big guy for balance before she falls over entirely.

“Alright,” she says dangerously, climbing back on him. “Alright, then, you’re asking for it. Let’s go, pretty boy.”

Bull says, “Can I--”

“ _Yeah_ ,” she says. “Pants off. Let’s do this.”

Bull cheers and hooks Mike’s trousers up and over his erection, and Cat is already peeling her own tight leggings down her thighs. Golden eyes locked with Mike, the girl arches backwards and rubs her bare slit against him, painting a slick line of heat all down his shaft, then taking the head of his dick with her next stroke. She's already shockingly wet for him and Mike curses, despite himself, shoulders tense, trying to pull free, but there are too many hands on him. The fairy girl just smirks triumphantly and sinks onto him, taking him inch by deliberate inch, overwhelming him with soft, relentless pleasure. When she’s seated herself entirely she shakes her hair back and sighs satisfaction.

“Mm, you’re _good_ , Sir Knight,” she purrs. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, and there’s a rosy flush to her cheeks now, spilling down across her breasts, as she raises herself up and comes down on him again. “This why your king keeps you around?”

“I-- _ahh, I don’t-- nnh-- we’re--not--”_

“Bet it is,” she says. “You’re not much of a, mm, a challenge, but, this is-- this is _nice_ , ah, you’re so pretty and this is _great_.”

“Maybe it’s his mouth,” Sting muses. “We could try that out and see.”

“When I’m done,” Cat says.

“And me, I called dibs,” Bull cuts in. He’s got both his hands clamped on Mike’s thighs, now, as Mike struggles. The pleasure of the girl on top of him is mixing with the tension and fury of so many hands keeping him pinned, sending his head spinning and his muscles all twitching aimlessly. He keeps trying to twist and buck against his captors, but he’s no longer so sure if he’s trying to escape to run away, or escape to flip this maddening, mocking girl over and pound her in half. See how _she_ likes being flat on her back.

Instead, she just keeps riding him, smooth and practiced, at just the right pace to drive him nuts. He finds himself falling into rhythm with her, caught up in the rising pleasure of it, how hot and slick she is sliding against him, the infuriatingly smug, musical noises of appreciation that she makes. How there’s nothing he can do but pull helplessly against his captors’ grip and shake apart as the girl takes exactly what she wants.

“Oh, wow,” one of the guys on his arms says, sort of hushed, and Mike shivers and gasps pathetically as Cat rides him through the aftershocks. One of Bull’s big hands has come around to cup her from the front, rubbing just above where she’s still joined with him, and she throws her head back and moans loud and shameless through her climax.

Finally she slumps forward, squirming a little, and rises up on her knees to let Mike’s spent dick slip free. She gives a breathless laugh, almost sweet-- almost _human_ \-- and then flops over to the side, curling against him and tracing ticklish little patterns across his chest, as if they were lovers. Mike tries to bite her but can’t quite reach, and she just laughs again.

“Fire him up, Bull,” she calls cheerfully back over her shoulder. “It’s your turn.”

“Yeah! Butt stuff!” the heavyset guy cheers, tossing his horns. He flexes his bare arms and shoulders, sending a ridiculous amount of muscle rolling and bunching, then strips the rest of Mike’s trousers and boots off, leaving him totally bare.

Mike swallows hard, even as his tired dick gives a traitorous twitch of interest. He tries to clamp his thighs together when Bull strokes at his balls, and the big guy just laughs at him.

“Nah, you want this, little man,” he says confidently, then grabs a leg in each hand and twists Mike around as easily as if Mike were a doll, so he’s chest-down with his arms crossed over his head at the elbows, knees spread, bare ass raised.

“Nice,” Bull says of his own work. The two guys still holding his wrists grin down at Mike and he glares, hot-faced and humiliated, but then a slick, wet finger presses into him and he’s entirely distracted even from _that_.

“I got this, I got it… Yeah, there!” Bull says, and Mike squirms, biting his lip, as the intrusion finds his prostate and rubs in firm, insistent circles, sending bright sparks of pleasure up his spine. It isn’t long at all before he’s gasping for breath, squirming uncertainly against the coaxing, unavoidable touch, wanting more despite himself.

“You wanna give up?” the girl purrs. “Cry mercy?” Mike shudders, swallows hard, shakes his head. He’s not a quitter, he’s not scared, not of _more_. He can take this.

He kind of _wants_ to take this.

Bull laughs again, pleased and proud, and introduces two more fingers all in a rush, stretching Mike to the edge of pain, wrenching a sharp moan out of him, then another moan and another and _oh god_ that’s his dick, sinking in steadily. Mike shudders and whines and the girl reaches over and draws her fingertips along the unguarded length of his dick, stroking soft and slow and _not enough_ , teasing more noise out of him as frustration mounts right along with the sharp pleasure of Bull’s penetration. He’s at least half hard again already, and feeling kind of crazy from all the teasing.

Her hand retreats from his dick and he actually whines, pleading, before he can stop himself— Bull goes _“Yeah! Let us hear you, li’l guy!_ ” and starts fucking him, drawing out and pushing back in with harsh, enthusiastic energy, and Mike can’t swallow back another whine. He’s gasping, now, shuddering at each pass of Bull’s dick over his aching prostate, the heavy fullness when he’s all the way in and the slide of skin against skin when he pulls out. It’s good, it’s too good.

Then Cat’s hand stops just teasing his dick and fists around it, suddenly slick with whatever lube Bull had been using on his ass. The next thrust shoves Mike’s dick through the tight channel of her fist and he _yells_ , squirming all over, breathless with the doubled pleasure.

“ _There_ we go,” Cat murmurs, and runs her thumb over the head of his dick, circling it firmly each time he’s jolted forward, unrelenting. “Give it to him, Bull, wreck him.”

Mike curses, weakly, pushes his hips back to meet Bull’s next series of thrusts. He can feel tears starting in the corners of his eyes, it’s too much, too good. Soft hands on his dick and rough ones on his hips, long fingers tight on his arms, his ass stretched full— he comes, again, like taking a mace to the head, it wipes him out. He’s still moaning through the aftershocks when Bull finds his own completion, slamming into him fast and uncoordinated for a last few strokes before flooding him deep inside with his come.

“Aw, dang,” the guy murmurs, resting his forehead against Mike’s shoulder. “You’re such a great ride. _Dang_.”  

Mike just pants helplessly for air, shivering through the last lingering aftershocks— Bull is still _in_ him, there’s still a hand on his spent, twitching dick, breath puffing cool and ticklish across the sweat-damp skin of his neck, hands tight on his crossed arms. Still bound, held, _touched_.

“You can cry mercy whenever you like,” Cat reminds him, and he can hear the fey, contemptuous smile in her voice without even looking.

“That was nothing,” Mike mutters, shaking his head. “That was— that was— _fine_ , I’m _fine_.” He’s _tired_ , is what he is, his shoulders aching, his dick sore and sensitive. He just came twice and neither time of his own free accord, and he wants to sleep for a week.

“Tough guy,” Bull rumbles, and nuzzles down the line of his back, before leaving a loud, smacking kiss just above his ass. “‘Kay, who’s up next?”

“Me,” the dark fairy says. “ _Definitely_ me.”   

Bull pulls out of Mike with a quick jerk and a long groan, then immediately runs his thumb around the rim of his entrance, _tugging_ at it. Mike moans a protest, squirming, and the big fairy laughs and does it again.

“Man, _look_ at you, li’l guy,” he says. “Fucked open for me, all ruined ‘n stuff. Just _look_.”

“Get his _arms_ for me and I’m _gonna_ ,” the dark fairy says, impatiently. “Come on!”

“Mmm,” Bull says, noncommittally, and presses two, three fingers back into Mike, spreads them out until Mike _whimpers_ , shuddering at the stretch of it, the attention. _Fucked open_.

“Let Sting have his turn,” Cat says, and shoves at Bull’s huge shoulders. “Go on, play fair.”

“Aww,” Bull says, and gets shoved again. “Okay, okay, lady, I’m going, fine, keep your whiskers on.”

“ _Finally_ ,” the tall, lean fairy says, dropping Mike’s arm as soon as Bull gets near. Mike thinks to lash out with it, punch someone, but before he can do more than swing his fist vaguely around, Bull’s already got him again. His fingers are warm and slick, and clamp around his forearm like a steel vambrace.

“Hey, he’s still got a some fight in him!” Bull says. Mike’s hair is nuzzled, and he growls, tugging at his arm, but it doesn’t do much. “You two wanna take care of that?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sting says, “yeah, I’m gonna, _wow_. Look at this.”

“I did!” Bull says, sounding pleased.

Fingers trace the hot, oversensitive rim of Mike’s entrance again, cooler and thinner this time. When they press in and spread they stretch him further, though, so he curses breathlessly.

“Yeah, he’s not all out, yet,” Sting says, voice hungry. “He’s probably got another couple shots left in ‘im, if we get at ‘em right.”

“He better,” the pale blond fairy cuts in. “I still got my turn left, remember?”

“And you’ll get it, _Storm_ ,” the dark one returns. Long, strong fingers press in deep, rubbing over his sore, sensitive flesh right up to the last knuckle, and Mike gasps, shuddering helplessly. Bull nuzzles his hair again, chuckling, and nips at his ear.

“Pretty tough, for such a li’l guy,” the bull-horned fairy murmurs, and bites his ear more firmly, so it stings. “Aren’tcha?”

“Yeah,” Mike grits out. He pushes his hips back against the fingers inside of him, clenches down even past the sharp ache of it. “Fff— _ah_ , gimme—’nything, I c’n— _nnh—”_

Bull chuckles in his ear, licks it, bites again. Noses past it to start sucking hot marks into the side of his throat, even while Sting sets up a soft, slow stroking inside him, almost too gentle and smooth to feel. Mike’s dick aches in time with his own pulse, a heavier feeling than it had been when he was hard. Even with the stimulation that has him caught between protest and challenge, he can’t imagine getting another erection for probably the rest of his life.

Then he feels Sting’s other hand, wiping away the wetness of sweat and come from his inner thigh, and a pang of foreboding goes through him.

“Hey, it’s cool, just relax,” Sting says, but there’s something wicked and amused in his tone that has Mike tensing. He squirms when something _sticky_ touches his inner thigh, and wrestles his head and shoulders around from Bull’s attention to try and peer under the length of his body to see what’s going on with his legs.

There’s something that looks like a leaf attached to his inner thigh: palm-sized, tear-shaped, bright green. Silver veins glitter through it, sparkling a little where Sting’s dark, pretty fingers smooth over them, fixing the leaf-like _thing_ flush against his skin. Mike stares, dread building up in his guts, as those same graceful fingers wipe his other thigh dry and then affix a second, identical item.

“You’re gonna _like_ this,” Sting says, low, _intimate._ He gives Mike’s limp, wet dick a playful tug, then draws his hand back and snaps his fingers.

Mike arches his back and _screams_ : a circuit of bright, overwhelming _sensation_ has sprung up between the two leaves, arcing from one thigh to the other straight through his dick. He squirms, frantically, bucking and twisting as he tries to get away from the feel of his own blood turned to quicksilver, every heartbeat rendered unbearably sharp and strong.

Bull and Storm are both laughing at him, their hands still iron shackles around his wrists no matter how he wrenches at them, and even Sting is chuckling, low and pleased and triumphant.

“Yeah, he’s having a _good_ time now,” Sting says, and smacks Mike’s butt. Mike kicks out, blindly, and moans convulsively when cool fingers close around his dick again. He’s _hard_ , somehow, impossibly ready again, his balls drawn tight enough to burst and his shaft gone hard and heavy as steel, that bright alien energy pulsing inside him over and _over and over_ , inescapable. A smooth thumb rubs over the head of his dick, smearing precome, and he realizes with confused, frantic shame that he’s dripping wet, wracked with shudders every time he gasps, he can barely _breathe_ for how hard he’s gotten and how much he feels and how confused he is.

“Need a break?” Sting asks him. Taunts him. “ _Gonna_ break? _Sir?_ ”

Mike grits his teeth, pulls in a long, shuddering, whining breath. He’s got tears streaking down his cheeks, now, drool dripping from his chin. He doesn’t feel like a knight, anymore, he feels  _scared_ , furious. Confused as all hell. And still the energy doesn’t stop pulsing inside him, burning against the inside of his flesh. _God_ , he can’t imagine what release would do to him, with his dick like this, so inhumanly aroused, but he— he wants— he _wants it_ , even as he drags his shaft slowly, shimmeringly, back and forth through the soft press of the fairy’s fingers.

“No,” he manages. “N—nn _nn_ , no, no, I’m. Please. Nnnh.”

“Take your time,” Sting smiles, and squeezes his shaft just a little. Mike’s so ridiculously, absurdly _wet_ , keeps dripping steady pulses of precome, shuddering and strange, it’s dripping through the fairy’s fingers, making the channel of his fist as slick as a dream. He gives Mike the freedom to move as he like, set his own pace, and his fingers inside Mike’s ass match it exactly as Mike draws his hips back again, pushes forward. Everything’s so intense, like this, every sensation echoing off the nearly-unbearable pressure of the energy loop set between his legs. He’s terrified of coming, but he can’t want anything _else_ , like this, he can’t imagine having to _be_ like this for a second longer than he has to.

And... it feels _good_. As he settles into the overloading sensations, the ache and rush and need of them, it feels _amazing_. He’s moaning again, almost sobbing, as he thrusts into Sting’s fist, and gradually _too much_ becomes _just right_ becomes _perfect_ becomes—

“More,” he chokes out, thrusting harder, “ _more, more_ , please _, more!”_

“You want my dick, yet?” Sting asks, and Mike can _hear_ that he’s laughing at him but he doesn’t _care_ , just shudders and pulses into his fist and hitches his hips a little faster, pleading.

“ _Nice_ ,” Cat says, from somewhere far away and unimportant.   

Sting’s dick isn’t as thick as Bull’s, but it’s hotter and thicker than his fingers, and it splits Mike back open. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d clenched up, how intently he was bearing down on those fingers, until a dick is getting shoved in there and it _aches_. He moans approval, squirming for more, and the fist on his dick tightens until he cries out, hungry and desperate.  

“Gonna fuck you now,” Sting says, voice tight, and Mike nods as fast as he can.

As slow and gentle as Sting had been with his hands, he’d been holding himself back: now that his dick’s in play, he fucks Mike fast and almost frantic, like he’s been desperate, like Mike’s been driving him just as crazy. Mike sobs and curses and clenches down vengefully on his length, the sensation in his ass echoing and redoubling with the incredible electric pressure inside his dick, and by the time Sting curses and slams into him a last few wild times and _comes_ , Mike’s almost mindless with the desperation of it all.

When Sting withdraws, both his dick from Mike’s ass and his hand from Mike’s still-hard, still-spurting length, Mike shudders and sobs and curses him thoroughly.

“Hah, we _did_ break him,” Sting mumbles, and slaps his hip. “Bad language for a white knight, isn’t it?”

Mike curses him again, and tries to get a hand free from Bull to touch himself. His dick is still so hard, so wet, desperate for a release that Mike can barely comprehend achieving but wants more than anything in the world. He can feel come rolling down the inside of his thighs, tickling the outside of oversensitive skin, rolling over and sparkling off the definitely-not-leaves that have reduced him to this. It’s too much. It’s nowhere near enough. He curses again and it doesn’t make him feel even a little bit better.

“How long’s that gonna last before he’s like, actually damaged?” Storm asks.

“Ehhh, his dick’ll drop off after a day or two,” Sting says. “Probably already scrambled the hell out of his brain, but it’s not like he was using it.”

Storm gives a high, sweet, merciless giggle, and Mike opens his eyes to stare up at the blond fairy. He’s grinning, wide and toothily, and his beetle-green eyes glitter with heat.  

“Yeah, that’s cool,” the pale fairy says. “That’s great. _Man_ , look at him.”

A raw-knuckled hand comes up and pets the side of Mike’s face, trailing rough fingers through the mess of tears and spit. Mike curses yet again, hoarse and shaky, feels his eyes close of their own accord as the caress winds up into his hair, _prickling_ , a bright strange crackle that sets off a wave of shudders all up and down his spine. _Electricity_ , he thinks, grasping clumsily at one thought after the next, almost too distracted by the roaring need of his dick to care about trying. _Lightning magic. He’s got. More. His hands—_

Long, rough fingers tweak the top of one of his ears, right over the sore mark of Bull’s teeth, and Mike yelps as a hot spark of energy grounds itself.  

“His ears are so _round_ ,” the fairy murmurs. His voice is high and distantly fascinated, like Mike’s just some passing curiosity, a toy, a pet. He cups Mike’s face in both hands, running his thumbs along the rims of his ears, and the power buzzing under his skin makes Mike’s whole head tingle, like a silver net’s been strung through his skull.

“You got a whole naked dude all laid out for you and you’re lookin' at his _ears_?” Sting snorts.

“I’ll get to the ass eventually,” Storm says. “But the ears are _really_ cute.”

“The ass is better,” Bull says.

“How’s the dick?” Storm asks.

“Eh,” Bull says, dismissively. “I’ve seen better, but it’s alright.”

“Iliked it,” Cat puts in, a wicked smile all through her tone.

Storm giggles, bright and careless, and gives Mike’s ears a final shock before letting him go. When Mike manages to fight down the last of the shivers and open his eyes, he sees the pale fairy peeling his dark trousers off, setting them aside, rubbing idly at his own hard, pink dick. Mike licks his lips, involuntarily, and makes a sound that was supposed to be _please,_ but too broken for any sense.

“Those leaves of yours still working, Sting?” Storm asks.

“Yep. I mean, _look_ at him. He’s gone.”

“Oh, I’m looking.” He is: his grin is wide, his eerie green eyes are bright, and he’s starting to touch himself more intentionally, stroking up and down. Mike stares back into that merciless, smiling face, and his heart manages to pound even faster, somehow. He doesn’t know what’s gonna happen next but he _wants_ it, desperately.

“Turn him loose.”

“You sure?” Sting asks, doubtfully, but Bull’s already gone, “ _Hell_ yeah! Get ‘im!” and let go of Mike’s arms. There’s a wild, merry peal of laughter from Cat as Mike rears back, and then Sting and Bull start laughing too as Mike dives past them and slams the pale blond fairy flat against the floor. Glitter rises up in a swirl from his crushed wings, before they flicker and sizzle and disappear. Storm grabs Mike back, twisting like an eel, laughing in the same crazy, careless, triumphant way all the other fairies are.

Mike gets his hips between the fairy’s long, lean legs and drives forward, his dick sliding and catching against the crease of Storm’s inner thigh, his balls. All he wants is— his aching, throbbing dick, _in_ , he’s gotta stick it _in_ somewhere. The fairy squeaks and grabs for him, rolling them over and over, the leaves still stuck to Mike’s thighs pumping erratic amounts of power through his dick now that he’s rubbing up against a guy who can make his own lightning. It’s dizzying, disorienting, and Mike winds up flat on his back again.

“Ride ‘im like you stole ‘im!” Bull cheers.

“We _did_ steal him,” Cat says, and laughs again.

Mike grits his teeth and grabs Storm’s throat, brings their faces together. It’s mostly biting, with a little extra tongue, and the pale fairy moans and shivers when Mike presses far enough in to taste blood. His grip on Mike loosens.

In a flash, Mike has them rolled over again, and is working a hand down behind Storm’s balls. And— _yes_ — he opens easily, he’s soft and slick inside, already ready for this, moaning and eager as Mike shoves two fingers in up to the palm, twists his hand to stretch him fast and cruel.

“Yeah, harder,” he gasps past the grip Mike has on his throat, breathless. “Ahhahaha, _fuck_ — more, c’mon, do it!”

Mike pulls his fingers out and shoves his dick in, and it’s _perfect_ , it’s too good, just what he needed. Hot and slick and tight, and the fairy underneath him gives a great, howling cry as he buries himself to the hilt.

“More,” he whimpers, _“more, dude, just— HURT_ me—”

Mike is more than happy, at this point, to do just that. With the unrelenting pressure of the leaves still on him, driving him well past crazy, he fucks into the soft, tender body beneath his hands like it’s vengeance. He thrusts in and out as hard as he can, slamming their hips together, and bites at whatever pale flesh he can get his mouth on— fingers and throat, shoulders, pink nipples turning red and then purple, the sharp hard edge of a jaw, the copper tang of a bleeding mouth.

“ _Oh_ ,” the creature moans, finally, shuddering and sweat-slick in his arms, still so incredibly good around his dick—Mike’s still so _hard,_ he still _needs_ so much, this shouldn’t be _possible_ — “Oh, fuck, _fuck_ — I’m—” and he comes, shuddering, pale come spattering against a pale stomach but it hardly matters. Mike keeps fucking into him, biting the taste of blood out of him— until he can’t, anymore, iron hands on his arms again, pulling him back, and he _screams_ , all mindless rage and desperation.

“Get them off—”

“Too much—”

“You okay?”

“—Yeah, I’m good, I’m great, I’m amazing—”

“Is he—”

“Here. Got it.” There’s an itchy, peeling sensation, and the torrent of insane need that’s caught Mike up flickers out, abruptly. Mike gives an awful, wrenching sob, his head spinning, and someone’s hand wraps around his dick, pumps it just once.

Mike comes so hard he actually blacks out.  

Coherence comes back slowly. Mike hides from it, stubborn and more than a little miserable, especially when he hears Bull say _“Hey, lemme have him again,”_ and his arms shake too much to push him away. He’s weak all over, wrung out empty, among creatures that seem happy to consume him down to the very last scraps. Hands and mouths and softer parts, and all his tender places _burn_. A heavy intrusion inside of him, sliding over something that sparks with bright, irresistible pleasure. Even if the leaves are off his thighs now, something’s wrong with his nerves, he’s still feeling too much. Kindling too fast to too-intense sensations.

“Stop,” he moans, the word clumsy and useless on his aching tongue. It doesn’t fit, comes out slurred. “ _Stop, please, please, no more, stop, leave me alone_ , let me go—”

Bull just laughs and keeps rocking into him, steady and relentless, and when a rough hand strokes over the inside of his legs Mike can’t help himself, he bucks into the touch, moaning as pleasure wipes away the rest of his words. He chokes on nothing and _needs_ more, all over again, he doesn’t want to but he does and Bull’s moving faster now and he’s gasping for breath, whimpering, clawing frantically at the ground because _no_ , no more but he _wants—_

“How’s he doing?” someone asks, sounding uneasy, Sting, maybe, his voice a low soft rumble. Long-fingered hands stroke Mike’s face, cup his jaw. Mike stares dazedly into a pair of wide, dark eyes.

“Feels _great_ ,” Bull grunts, “He’s so wet ‘n loose, all broken in, s’ _awesome_.”  

“I think we finally did it, we fucked him stupid,” Cat says, purring and smug, and tugs Mike’s dick, a sharp tease that blanks him out, sets him screaming. His nerves are all scrambled up and burning, pain and pleasure the same imperative demand for _more, more_ , he’s jerking his hips back to meet Bull even as he feels tears and blood smear against his cheek where Sting is still holding him.

The dark fairy kisses his open mouth, slow and tender, testing.

“You can cry mercy, little guy,” he murmurs. “You’re mortal, you know. You can call us off before we fuck you dead.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cat hisses somewhere, and he can feel the slim female body pressed against his side shudder, the sharp claws tracing over his back drawing hot bright lines. “ _Fuck, that’d be something, that’d look so good—”_

“Easy, Cat,” Storm says, leaning in. Pulling her away. “C’mere, gimme those claws, yeah?”

She’s pulled away and the smell of blood in the air peaks and Mike is shaking apart, head spinning, watching the small feline creature carve herself into the tall blond fairy with a desperate, terrifying violence. He takes it and cries for more and Mike presses back into Bull’s rough pounding and forward into Sting’s soft, relentless mouth and loses even more of himself, piece by piece. There isn’t any difference between shock and aftershock anymore, it’s all one blow after another of pain and compulsion and it feels so good, he wants it to _stop_ but it doesn’t, they won’t.

“Mercy,” he whispers, reaching for the very last desperate spark of hope. “Mercy, please, I yield, please, _mercy_ , enough.”

“Oh, shit,” Sting says, clear and carrying through the dark haze. “Guys, he called it! He called mercy, get— get off, Bull, c’mon—”

There’s the sound of thunder, in the distance, and one of the fae curses at further length under his breath.

“Aw, what?” Bull says, breathless, still moving in him fast and hard and shattering. “Thought he— still wanted— look, he’s still, hhf, still game, ‘s’cool—”

“You _heard_ him, he cried mercy, playtime’s over,” Sting says sharply. “The king’s gonna be here for him any minute, that’s how this works.”

“I didn’t— _hah, shoot,_ ” Bull mutters, and pulls out with a sharp jerk. Mike moans, pain and need and relief and terror all at once. " _Didn’t_ hear _nothin’!_ You said the _magic words_ were gonna be, like, magic!”

“Yeah, _like magic_ , calling mercy ends the spell that keeps Vanquisher away, we _told you_ — c’mon, let’s go, we’ll go over it again when you’re _not messin’ with him_ ,” Sting says.

“I’m not! I’m not, I didn’t!” Big hands run over his body, roll Mike over— touch his chest, his throat, cup his jaw. Mike manages to open his eyes to see Bull staring intently down at him, and tries to wince away. Can’t. Whimpers helplessly.

“You are, so let _go_ ,” Sting snaps, and shoves at Bull. Bull’s big hands tighten on Mike, for a minute, a rough palm swiping over his hair. Mike shudders and whimpers again, trying to squirm, wracked with shudders and a desperate fear that it’ll all start again, whatever magic that’s halted this is just gonna _give out_ and he’ll be fucked and fucked apart and there won’t be anything left. His dick aches like it wants that, still so impossibly needy for any release it can get. His ass is sore and empty and hot and _empty_ and he _wants_.  

Bull lays him gently down. “Sorry, little guy,” he murmurs quietly. “I didn’t know. You gonna be okay? Hey, hey, guys, is he—?”

“It’s not our business anymore,” Storm speaks up. “None of this is, _leave_ him already! Lord Vanquisher can have what’s left of him. So let’s _go_ before he _gets here_ , Bull!”

“I don’t like this,” Bull says slowly. “I don’t think we did this right.”

“We’ll go over that later, just _come on_!”

There’s a scramble of legs and wings, glitter, muffled curses, Sting hauling on Bull’s horns and Storm and Cat helping one another upright, wobbly and wide-eyed as they skirt around Mike, dripping blood and come and sparkles. Mike growls at them, when it looks like Cat might come closer, bares his teeth and tries to _threaten_ , and she recoils this time. Finally serious, finally taking him seriously, for all that he can hardly keep his eyes open, much less attack. They _leave_. The air calms, quiets, and he’s left. He shudders over and over in the sudden cold.

He’s alone. He’s been _left_. He can’t quite curl in on himself, but he makes the attempt.

Everything is very quiet, for a long time. Mike lies there and shudders, as what’s left of him settles in on itself. It’s very nearly blissful.

When something touches his shoulder, he _screams_. He tries to strike out but only succeeds at rocking in place, a little, as his spine cramps up. He’s cold all over his used-thin skin but racing-hot inside, where his shredded heart beats wildly against his ribs.  

“ _No no no, mercy, mercy, please, I begged—I said— no, NO_ ,” he moans, face pressed against the ground, words coming out crushed flat.

“Sir— shh, Mike, it’s alright, shh, it’s me— it’s your— it’s me, it’s Vanquisher,” someone says, voice high and cracking, and rough fingers skate over the flesh of his shoulder, along his upper back. Mike sobs and convulses with the effort of drawing in on himself, trying to get away from the touch.

“Shh, shh, I’m sorry, shh,” they say, and there’s rustling. Something heavy and familiarly-scented falls over him, wraps around. Mike squirms but can’t get away, and then slowly realizes it’s a cloak, it’s Lord Vanquisher’s cloak. He’s being bundled up in it, covered.

“My lord...?” Mike asks, hardly daring.

“Yeah, it’s me, I’m here now,” Vanquisher says. “I’ve got you, okay? We’ve been— it’s been ages, they had you for _so long_. I saw you lying there and I thought you were— ”  

“‘M’okay,” Mike manages. He cracks one of his eyes open, peers past the edge of the cloak. His lord is on his knees before him, his pale face drawn with concern, hazel eyes bright with unshed tears. There’s a purpling bruise on one high cheekbone, and all down his mouth and jaw are vicious, half-scabbed bites and gouges, and worse ringing the long line of his throat. When he sees Mike looking he wipes hastily at his eyes, looking away, and there’s terrible deep wounds across his fingers and wrists. Tooth marks, claw-marks, scrapes and welts. Long gashes along his arms, the blood still welling vivid-bright.

“...You’re hurt,” Mike says.

“I think that’s my line,” his lord says, and gives the watery ghost of a laugh. “It’s— there was a fight. I prevailed. The ones who did this to you, they won’t do it again. Ever.”

Mike closes his eye again and sighs out in bone-deep relief. They’re not coming back. It’s not going to start up again. What’s left of him is his to keep.

He gathers himself up, bit by bit, and pushes forward a few inches. Just enough to lay his face on one of Vanquisher’s knees.

“I... cried mercy...” he mumbles. “I thought... you weren’t... coming, in, in time, to...”

“I don’t know if I was,” Vanquisher says, unaffected by his admission. Unangered. “Whatever got them to leave you, I’m glad of it. You were stolen right out of our camp and hidden, Mike, no one could find you, we _looked_ , but you were just gone, they could have kept you forever. I thought I’d find you _dead_.”

“‘M’not,” Mike manages. “Just. Gave up. Feels worse.”

“Oh, no. Shh, shh, no, please don’t— don’t— I’m here, you’re alright, that’s all I want, please don’t cry, Mikey— _Sir,_ please— come here—”

“My lord,” Mike says, relief crashing through him. He struggles up on one arm, his muscles all loose and cramping up somehow at the same time, electric jelly. His king gathers him close for all that Mike is naked and dripping wet with sweat and blood and— and _come_ , and glitter, and weirder stuff besides. Mike presses his face to the crook of his king’s shoulder and breathes and shakes and _breathes._

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have got you sooner, I’m so sorry,” Vanquisher is saying— stammering, almost, his voice tight and high. Stressed. “Oh, man, oh no, we didn’t mean for it to— don’t cry, it won’t happen again, it _won’t_ , you’re safe now. It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay.”

Mike laughs weakly. “Yeah, fine,” he mumbles. “‘M’fine, s’cool, s’all okay.”

“There we go, we’re agreed,” Vanquisher says, and gives a shaky, squeaky little laugh. “You’re gonna be alright, it’s all gonna be totally and completely alright.”

Mike finds himself shuddering in long, weird spasms, gasping for air. Vanquisher makes another wordless distress noise and pulls him in close, wrapping his arms tightly around Mike and rubbing slow, careful circles on his back. Through the thick fabric of the cape, it isn’t too much— just pressure, soft and comforting. The relief of being _covered_ , even as the fabric rasps over his raw flesh and clings to the wet parts, is so profound it’s like a new kind of release. Mike shudders and swallows tears, trying to get hold of himself.

“Can you move?” his lord asks, after some long and humiliating time. His hand hasn’t stopped moving on his back, reassuring and steady, and Mike nods, even though he’s not sure.

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles again.

“Yeah, you will be, we’ll get you to, um, to camp and clean you up,” Vanquisher says. “C’mon, up we go...”

Mike’s legs are as shaky as the rest of him, too loose and too tense all at once, the skin of his thighs agonizingly sensitized. He can feel the awful echoes of aftershock pulsing through him, as he tries to stand and his legs buckle, and it almost makes him lose control all over again.

But his king is there, steady hands on him, never touching him anywhere that isn’t covered by the cloak, saying “C’mon, you can do it, let’s try again, you’re fine, you’re gonna be fine,” and Mike is, he’s okay now, he can do it. Haltingly, bit by bit, he gets an arm over his lord’s shoulders, leans into the arm that gets wrapped around his ribs. One step and then the next, gritting his teeth against the fluids that slide down his prickly-sensitive thighs, drip across the ground between his bare feet.

He collapses gratefully onto a camp cot, as soon as Vanquisher helps him through the entrance of his tent and lets him go. It jounces but it’s fabric, not bare ground, and the smell of his king rises up all around him from the bedclothes, familiar and well-loved. Sweat and sleep and dust and metal. Mike can’t help the tears that keep rising in his eyes, or the endless shocky trembling, but here it’s— it’s alright, it’s allowed. Sprawled naked and filthy on his king’s bedclothes, it’s probably _expected_.

Vanquisher is gone for a moment, then comes back with a soft cloth and a bowl of sharp-scented water.

“Here, let’s get you comfortable,” he says.

“You don’t— hafta, you’re— sssnh. Still. King,” Mike mumbles, and gets gently whapped over the head with the cloth.

“If I’m king I get to do what I want, and what I want is to clean up my fairest and most favorite knight before he gets glitter dried to his— his parts,” Vanquisher says, his lofty tone breaking just a little. “C’mon, lie flat. You look like you fought like hell.”

“I did,” Mike says. “I did, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t _let_ — I never—”

“Shh, shh, easy, I know. I know you, Sir. They’d have paid for every inch they took, I know. You’re brave and fierce and pure, I _know_ you. But now would you _please_ let me attend what they— they wrested from you, unwilling.”

Mike swallows hard, adjusting himself in slow uncomfortable increments till he’s spread out for cleaning. His king sits on the edge of the cot and peels the edge of the cloak down Mike’s shoulders, following his bared skin with the cool, soft touch of the washing cloth.

“They made me willing,” he confesses, and grits his teeth against another long shudder, a fresh upwelling of tears. “They _made_ me but I— after enough— time, they had whatever they wanted from me, and I _liked_ it. Being made to. Do those things. I fought them but when I lost I was— some part of me was—glad. To submit.”

Vanquisher is quiet for long moment, his face drawn and serious. The only sounds are Mike’s rough, wet breaths, and the slide of the washing cloth over his back, clearing away blood and glitter.

“A man can find pleasure in private acts that he would abhor in any public setting,” the king finally says. “I would like to think that such a distinction might also be made when taking measure of his character.”

“Oh,” Mike says, uncertainly. “Um.”

Lord Vanquisher grimaces. “I like pain,” he says, his fair face starting to color. “In— in bed. I like to hurt, to be— punished. It doesn’t mean that I’d seek it out on the battlefield, or allow my subjects to raise hand against me in court. You understand?”

“Oh,” Mike says again. He tries to meet his king’s eyes, but the man has drawn into himself, cheeks flushed red, hand gone still on Mike’s back.

“It doesn’t matter what you... might have done, then, or wanted. You’re here now. And I’m glad of it.”

“...Me too,” Mike says, and rolls over enough that he can catch his king’s trailing hand. He brings it to his mouth, wincing a little despite himself, at the soreness of his lips, and kisses the back of his king’s hand. “I’m— I think I get it. Sire. I thank you.”

“Sir,” the king says, and he sounds— breathless, suddenly, and a little afraid. “Are you—”

“Yeah,” Mike says, “yes, I mean, _you_ — I’d want— any time, at any time, I’d want you. I’d be glad of being here with you, I mean.”

It isn’t exactly what he means, and they both know it. Vanquisher twists his hand, carefully, to cup Mike’s jaw, and Mike feels his aching heart speed up again, fluttering this time with a sudden wild hope.

“You came to get me,” he says. “You saved me. And now I’m— here, where I want to be, and, and maybe you— want that, also, I mean, I don’t know what I mean, I don’t— know how this is— supposed to go, I’m sorry—”

Vanquisher leans in and kisses him, very carefully. Like he knows exactly how sore Mike’s mouth is, right now, and how much Mike wants to kiss him, anyway. It’s slow and careful and just barely enough and _perfect_. Mike melts back against the camp cot, pulling Vanquisher with him, and lets the cloak fall away from his prickling skin. His king holds himself over Mike, just a little apart, and his hand comes to rest very cautiously on Mike’s bare chest. It sticks, there, and they both pull back from one another, wincing.

“Let me finish this,” Vanquisher says, reaching for the wash rag, and Mike nods. It’s more comfortable, now, that he can lie spread and just let his— his— friend, partner, liege, everything— attend to him, chase the hot shivers across his chest and hips and legs with the wash rag, clean him up. Wipe away what was done to him.

The water in the bowl is a murky, disgusting pinkish-grey and the glitter has been fairly well redistributed from Mike to Lord Vanquisher and the cot and the bowl and even parts of the tent, by the time Vanquisher calls the job done. Mike is drowsing, his tears dried and his shivering soothed to nothing more than an occasional twitch, when his king makes as if to rise from the cot. Mike wakes up fast, grabbing for his wrist.

 _“Stay_ ,” he pleads.

“I— if you— want, if you’re sure?” Vanquisher says, and for a moment he looks very young and uncertain. “You’ve been through— a lot. If you wanted to be alone—”

“ _No,_ ” Mike says, and shudders. “No, don’t leave me, dude— sir, sire, please, c’mere, lie down with me.”

Vanquisher colors across his freckled cheeks, and Mike realizes a little too late what _lie with me_ traditionally means.

“Any kind of lying,” Mike clarifies, hastily. “Just— maybe you could use a rest, too? Just for a little while?”

“Yes, alright, if you’re sure,” Vanquisher says, and settles on to the edge of the cot. He moves very slowly and carefully, like he thinks he can manage to arrange two fairly large, fit young men onto a narrow camp cot without either of them touching anywhere improprietous. Mike rolls his eyes at him, and pulls him close, firmly ignoring the king’s embarrassed yelp or Mike’s own reflexive tremble as their hips come flush and their legs intertwine.

“Okay,” Vanquisher says breathlessly, his mouth against Mike’s forehead. “Okay, alright, sure, we both— we fit, that’s— nice.”

“Mmhm,” Mike says, already starting to drift again, for all that his exasperatingly oversensitized thighs are pressed up against some pretty interesting territory.  “Y’can get off... when’vr... y’like...”

His king lets out a completely unkingly little giggle, high-pitched and furtive, and his hips twitch, just once, against Mike’s, and Mike startles and then reviews what he’d just said and starts giggling, too. They lie there and laugh like idiots, and then Mike brings his face up and Vanquisher brings his face down and they’re kissing, slow and sloppy, and Mike tastes blood and doesn’t know whose it is, or care.

“‘M tired,” he admits. “But I want— I still want— you, so much, please—I don’t think what they did to me is, is _done_ , I still _want_ , and I _want you_. Please?”

“Okay, okay, alright,” Vanquisher says, and rolls above him. A hand trails down his stomach, hesitates right at the base of his still-hard dick. “Can I, uh, can I have you?”

“ _Mmmh,”_ Mike moans, arching clumsily up into the touch, “yeah, you’ve my, ha, I pledged my, my blade, in your service, it’s yours.”

Vanquisher laughs again, this time low and fond. “Well, then, I accept.”

Mike’s so tired he feels dislocated, somehow, as if every sensation is being presented to him through a muffling curtain, showing up in oddly distinct pieces. Skin against skin, the coolness of oil on his dick, the rustling noise of Vanquisher unclothing himself. The low creak of the camp cot protesting their movements.

He loses time, just enjoying each feeling, the way his partner sinks onto him all slick and tight and hot, moaning appreciation, the way he’s encouraged to grab a fistful of Vanquisher’s hair and _pull_ , encouraging him along, the way they kiss over and over again, till Mike’s mouth is long past sore from it and Vanquisher must be halfway torn apart, from the taste of blood across Mike’s teeth, and the soft high keening he makes as Mike bites and licks and bites again, pressing up everywhere his lord’s weight holds him down. The sensation and pleasure and restless unsatisfied desire spur him blindly onwards, pressing harder, pulling and biting more sharply, and Vanquisher rides him faster and faster, coming apart into a gorgeous mess of high cries and curses. He’s perfect on Mike’s dick, he’s perfect everywhere, warm and strong, and the pleasure overwhelms Mike a final time. It’s not the shattering, unnatural peak the fairies induced, but it’s enough, it’s more than enough. It takes him apart into gentle pieces, and leaves him soft and sleepy in the dark.

He’s aware of Vanquisher holding him close, the movement of fabric between them, a blanket pulled over them, and nothing more until morning.

* 

Mike wakes up slowly, aware for the longest time only of warmth, and comfort. Then he tries to snuggle deeper into it, and all the rest of his body brings to his attention the fact that he’s basically still a complete mess. His spine aches, his arms ache, there’s a crick in his neck, he doesn’t even want to _quantify_ how rough everything below his waistline feels, and his mouth tastes amazingly gross.

He moans unhappily, and a hand immediately finds his head, pets his hair. He gives another, happier moan, and lets it.

“How’re you doing, buddy?” someone asks, and it’s— _Chuck_ , it’s Chuck. Mike makes the effort to blink his eyes open at the guy and give a wan smile.

“Been better,” he says, and they both wince at the dry, cracking rasp of his voice. “Nnh, ow.”

“Here, dude, there’s water,” Chuck says. “You’re probably like, _so_ dehydrated.”

“Jeez, yeah, gimme,” Mike agrees, and lets his best friend help him sit up, hold the bottle for him. He feels a lot less awful once he’s drained the bottle and flopped his head down against Chuck’s narrow shoulder, though.

“You did good,” Chuck says. “Like, just so you know. You did _awesome_.”

“Course I did,” Mike says, but at least one tense, aching part of him unclenches at that. “...Everyone else okay?”

“Kinda worried about you,” Chuck says. “You held out for... a lot longer than we figured you would, dude. You got yourself pretty darn messed up.”

“I liked it,” Mike says. “...I think.”

“You think.” Chuck snorts. “Since when do you _think_?”

“Aw, hey.”

There’s a quiet little creak from the entrance to Mike’s bedroom, and Mike looks up from Chuck’s shoulder to see Julie peering through the doorway, looking about as pale and grave as he’s ever seen her. When their eyes meet, she flinches back.

“Uh!” she says. “Hey! So! Uhh.... hi?”

“Hey, Jules,” Mike smiles. “C’mon in, I’m fine.”

She bites her lip, hesitating, then barrels forward all in a rush, practically scrambling as she climbs into bed with him.

“Are you okay?” she demands. “Chuck said you were but like you’ve been asleep for _ten hours_ , and we— you were _hamburger_ by the time you called off, there was _a lot of blood_.”

“I liked it,” Mike repeats more firmly. Julie looks unconvinced, but at least closes the final distance between them and thumps her head against his chest, her small, cool hands grabbing one of his arms and holding tight. The bedroom door creaks open wider, and Texas and Dutch file in, looking worried.

“Hey,” Texas says, and seems to get stuck there. Dutch just looks apprehensive.

“It’s cool,” Chuck sighs. “He’s being macho about it, so we’re all fine, everything’s great.” His tone is startlingly sarcastic, and Mike looks back up at him, confused now.

“Chuck, I’m okay,” he says.

“Yeah, like _fun_ you are,” Texas snorts, and leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, face set in weirdly tense, angry lines.

“Yeah, no, you really aren’t,” Chuck says.

Dutch comes over and kneels down by the side of the mattress, and tugs the blanket off Mike’s hips, expression grim.

“They didn’t work right,” he says, and traces his fingers over the tear-shaped purple welts left by those leaf-things. Mike’s hips jerk all on their own and he lets out an involuntary whine as heat jolts up through his spine. Julie and Chuck make as if to get away from him, and he grabs them with sore, fumbling hands. Anxious not to be alone again, not to drive them away again, let them think he’s holding any of what happened in a stupid sex game against them.

“They worked,” he gasps. “ _Hhh_. Man. They definitely worked.”

Dutch just shakes his head, his mouth a tight line. “They didn’t work _right_ , this is— it was too much, we shouldn’t have been playin’ around like that, messin’ you up so bad. You didn’t call us off until _way_ too late in the game, you let us _really hurt you_.”

Mike squirms guiltily. “I’m not mad,” he says. “It’s _alright,_ Dutch!”

“It’s _not_ alright!” Dutch snaps. “Mike, we _hurt you_ , we messed you _way the hell up_ , it’s not alright!”

“Okay, okay, it’s— it’s not all the way alright, but, it’s— c’mere, don’t beat yourself up about it, we’ll fix it,” Mike says, and pulls Dutch up and into the awkward pile of limbs and bruises everyone else is making of his bed. There’s a sort of chain reaction of wincing and resettling as Dutch fits his long arms and legs into what little space is available, but no one lets him get away, and they finally figure out an arrangement where everyone is hugging someone and no one’s getting elbowed in a bruise.

Texas is still by the door, though, arms crossed, everything about him tight and wary and unhappy.

“Tex,” Mike sighs at him. “Buddy, big guy, c’mon…”

“You made me hurt you,” he says. “Not just for fun but like, _really_ hurt you. I’m not like that. I didn’t wanna _be_ like that.”

Mike winces. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It… that wasn’t okay, of me, I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, okay?”

Texas unclenches a little, and he pulls his hat off, swipes one of his hands through his hair. “Next time we’re gonna be better, is all,” he mumbles. “Y’don’t have’ta be _sorry_ , just, y’know, it wasn’t okay. You’re not okay and _that’s_ not okay. Next time we gotta do it so everyone’s okay. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Mike says gratefully. “Yeah, alright, that’s— yes. We will.”

“We’ll all do better,” Julie says. “Pay more attention, plan stuff out more, do it right next time. But sometimes things just blow up and it isn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Well, a lot of the time when things blow up it’s _definitely_ our fault,” Chuck says, and that breaks the tension a little: Dutch snorts, and Julie makes a big offended face and pops a gentle fist against his chin.

“Okay, _now_ everything’s fine,” Texas says, finally smiling, and comes to join the pile on the bed. The bedframe creaks ominously as Texas settles into the mess of limbs and bruises, but it holds, and there’s just enough space for him to fit, if everyone squeezes in right. Chuck gives Texas a soft, grateful look, and pats his shoulder, and Texas sighs and nods and rubs his cheek against Chuck’s hand as he eases over to cuddle Julie. He doesn’t seem to want to touch Mike, which is… kind of fair. They’ll work on it. They’ll figure out how to trust each other again.

Mike’s got yet another erection, now, and he’s doing his best not to get it caught on anyone. Dutch is eying it like it’s a personal affront to his engineering skills.

“So biomechanical augmentation isn’t your thing,” Chuck says. “Boo hoo. Guess you’ll have to settle for being awesome at like, everything else.”

“Man, shut up,” Dutch says halfheartedly. “Mike, d’you want...?”

“I _really_ don’t,” Mike says.

“Okay, but if it sticks around for too long...”

“There’s this awesome modern technology called a cold shower,” Mike says. “I think I’ll be able to cope.”

Dutch finally laughs, a wry and quiet little huff but still something Mike’s willing to count as a victory, and relaxes against him. Julie’s already curled up warm and cozy between them with Texas at their backs, finger-combing Julie’s hair away from sticking to people, and Chuck’s sitting up against the headboard with three screens already out and running, tabulating all kinds of data Mike doesn’t care about right now. In a little bit he’s gonna have to get up, get something to eat, start another day, prepare for their next adventure, but right now everything’s just about perfect.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Pick a part, you dream it up_  
>  _Use your imagination_  
>  _Oh, boy, I'll be your fantasy_  
>  _Tonight's the night (tonight's the night)_  
>  —Katy Perry, _Dressin' Up_


End file.
